This is How I Find Myself
by Gossamer Nightmare
Summary: Arthur finds himself outside Alfred’s home one cold Christmas Day. -Arthur's POV-


This is How I Find Myself

-First Person POV, Arthur-

**A/N:** Hello to all of you out there! I have recently been reading a lot of things in first-person, so this came to me. I really do hope I don't bore you, or get Arthur's character incorrect…

**Rating: **T, for coarse language.

**Pairing: **UKUS (though that's a little obvious)

**Summary:** Arthur finds himself outside Alfred's home one cold Christmas Day.

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**Christmas, 2009**

_Arthur_

My tracks are marked in the snow as I pack it beneath my booted feet. The only thought in my mind is how the snow is much like history. You leave your influence there, thinking it will last forever even as the snow falls, so ignorant, until you wake up the next morning…only to find it is gone. This singular comparison sears my mind, makes the dull hiss of the innermost voice in my mind raise to a scream, shouting, _"Shut up! Shut up! No such thing! Nonsense! You exist! You always have and always will! Forever more, people will know who you are! Great Britain! The all-powerful British Empire! The sun never set on it! The sun __**never**__ sets on you!"_

Oh, yes it does.

The sun has set on me more times than I care to count. So many times, I have been pushed down to the point of death, where my heart seems to tear from my chest. So many times, I have been miserable, in the dark shade of the hiding sun. So many _damn times_, I have found that the words will not leave my tongue as easily as they do when I rehearse in front of the mirror. _I love you. I love you so much. Please, let me hold you. Let me kiss your face. I love you so much, Alfred._

Alfred.

That name sits like the sweetest bile in my mouth. It's welcome…but not. It's something I want to swallow, but the very thought disgusts me. I want to spit it out, but its taste just won't leave anyways, and really, what's the point in separating from something so _good_? There really _is_ no sense in it! There is no sense in what I do. I am a madman, as I always have been.

I am as mad as I was during the Revolution of _my dear favorite colony_, as unstable and weak and shaking as I was when Germany's _Luftwaffe_ targeted me, ripped apart London, my heart, my soul, _my people_. Damn him to hell.

Damn _me_ to hell.

Damn me to hell for not being able to say these words! Damn it, damn it all! Oh, just let me lie in the snow! Let me freeze to death! Let it bury me under its white beauty and forget everything, forget it all, erase the past and the mistakes and everything I can't take back! May everyone be happy and merry and forget about the United Kingdom! Forget it all, forget it all, _and forget it all_! Let me die with this pure silence! May it wash away the sins I cannot undo, that stain my face and my eyes and curse my life tenfold!

And this is how I find myself, outside his home.

It must look strange, staring in upon his living room through a window. I am watching him, as I always have, from his shadow. He blocks the sun from the forgotten British Empire. He forgets me, as I knew he would the day I watched him sleep. I believed this would happen sooner or later. I had just hoped it would not be my favorite. No, not my favorite. _Never_ my favorite.

Today, as I always have, I watch him. Only it is through his window, at his residence. I watch him sit next to the fire, stoking it with a brass-colored poker, staring into its depths as if it holds the answers to the universe. Knowing him, he probably believes it does. But no. There is something strange in the way he stares at it. A strange gaze that pierces past the fire, focused on something unseen even by me. It makes me wonder just what it is that he looks at now. What could it be? Alfred has never looked at anything like that.

Am I missing something here?

It makes me worry. But I will not say a thing, not a word! For if I do, Alfred will know I have been watching him. Soon, Alfred sighs and stands slowly from his spot near the fireplace, pacing around the room with concern.

Concern? Can Alfred _ever_ be concerned? And these events make me realize I have not been paying attention to him as well I could have. I writhe in an uncomfortable manner. It bothers me that I have no clue what is going on. What is he doing? Shall I ask him? No, no. Then he will know.

_I_ sigh. This is more frustrating than it should be. Damn Alfred for making me worry. Damn it. _Damn it all._ No, no—I should not go any further with damning people. So I settle for watching a little longer. I settle for making sure what is going on before I rush to worry. I watch him peek at the wristwatch I bought him ten years ago – he wears that? – and notice that, for the first time, I am seeing him without that stupid bomber jacket. His frame is hidden by his oversized pajamas, but I can tell that he is not so much weighed down by fat than he is muscle. Of course, the git would not know the difference.

Alfred looks over at the tree, frowns. It is as if he finds something missing there, as if there should be something there for him. And he does not expect it in the slightest.

I remember, for the longest time, I thought the sea was endless. It was my love, my one and only love, and I would give my life to die upon it—if my life was something I was free to give away. I remember that my own foolishness was disproven, that the sea was like a loop, that the oceans flowed into lakes and rivers and streams and ponds, but it truly did have an end.

Now the _sky_ is endless: it expands into space, and space is ever-growing. Every day, the universe gets bigger.

It's a wonder how there's so little room for us all if the universe just keeps getting bigger.

It makes sense that, as the universe grows; I seem to get smaller…

And I often wonder if America will begin to shrink as well. I wonder if he knows that the thing he loves so much keeps getting bigger, regardless of what he does. Does he know that he keeps getting smaller, too? No. He _literally_ gets smaller, to the universe. But I – I get smaller and smaller, I become a shadow, I am _unnoticed, unloved, and so damn foolish_—

Why do I keep these hateful thoughts with me? It is Christmas, and I should be happy. But it seems as though happiness is just a word. A word that cannot be found in a sentence with _Arthur Kirkland_, unless it is preceded by _is not_. Christmas has not been a happy thing for Arthur Kirkland in a very, very long time.

When my thoughts come back to Alfred and his window, he turns his head and spots me out there. His eyebrows draw together with confusion, and slowly, he paces towards the window. I notice that he looks tired before the consideration of turning to run away before he can get to the window, turning and running away, and acting like all of this never happened in the morning, pretend like I had never been out here today. _"Why were you outside my window yesterday morning, Arthur?" "What? When was I at your house, America? You must finally be aging."_

"Arthur?" The window is open. America leans out, arms crossed. He is shivering—it is cold. I shiver subconsciously in response to his own. "Arthur? What are you doing outside?"

"I—" I fumble with my words. Excuses, excuses…why can I not think of any? Perhaps it is the sky-blue gaze pinning me to the white landscape? "I—"

America shakes his head. "It's cold outside. Before you say anything, won't you come in?"

"I suppose I have no choice."

"That's right! You don't." His grin is only half-amused. He closes the window, walking towards the door. I place my hand in my pocket, feeling the sharp edges of the cube-shaped box in my hand, neatly-wrapped in shimmering golden paper and topped off with a neatly-tied silver bow, walking to the now-open door with America standing in it at the very same time. His eyes watch my hand in my pocket, so I instantly pull away and glare at him, kicking the snow off of my boots before shoving my way inside, past America.

In an instant, Alfred is trying to get my coat off. I shove him away with a thousand curses on my lips, pulling off my coat. I keep it in my arms, despite America's protests against it. He argues with me for a few minutes before giving up, calling me old and stubborn, and shoves me into the living room before running off to get changed.

While I am alone, I look around the room that I had been watching him in before. The tree is tall, to match the high-vaulted ceiling. It is decorated gaudily in garlands, ornaments, a golden star to top it off. The tree looks exactly like something he decorated on his own. Upon looking about the living room, however, I do notice the more elegant decorations. Nothing too flashy, nothing too simple. There is just enough.

"Like it?" Alfred startles me, though I would loathe telling him so.

I turn to glare at him, "if it will get you to shut up, then yes."

He sighs. Not the reaction I expected. America rubs at his eyes and looks at me in a way I have never seen him look at me before. It makes me writhe in my seat, too uncomfortable, but I make small movements so that he may not know this. "Arthur…"

I am frowning. While I normally frown, I feel this one to be different. It is a deeper frown that I have not used in such a long time. "What?"

"Why were you out there?" Alfred's glasses have been removed. They are bright and clear and Dear Lord, I cannot look away from them, no matter how hard I try!

Once again, I am fumbling for words, grabbing at them desperately, attempting to string a few together to form a coherent sentence. In the meantime, my mouth moves up and down like a goldfishes', unable to make a sound, as busy as I am at the moment. I do not have to answer, as Alfred begins up again.

"I got worried. You weren't here at your usual time, a-and…and I thought you wouldn't be coming this year."

I scoff. Now my words run freely. "Why should that bother you?" It's so fucked up that I can only say cruel things to him with ease. They hardly voice how I truly feel.

Alfred begins to shake. I know it is not the cold—it is something else—but I trick myself into it. That is, until I hear his sharp intake of air. "I-I don't know…I guess…I'm so used to it, and…and I…I would hate to not see you on Christmas, you know? We used to be so close, a-and this day was…it just worried me, Arthur!" But he calms in an instant, looking over at me with an apologetic smile. "Sorry, sorry. I guess it's stupid of me to worry about it, huh? You probably don't care very much."

Again, I am grasping at words I have, but cannot string them together. I want to tell him why I stood outside his window. I want to tell him it is because I was too afraid this year, to step inside his home and do what I have always wanted to. I want to tell him I was going to rush up to him and embrace him, but I was too afraid…so instead I stood outside his window and watched. And oh, how I want to tell him that I do care! I would not miss this small tradition of ours for the world.

But I am who I am, Arthur Kirkland, and the words will scurry from me before I can grab them. So I pull the neatly-wrapped box from my hand, standing and placing it in Alfred's open hands. "Here," I tell him as I sit next to him against the wall.

He holds the box in his hands and stares at it, shaking it curiously. I flinch. The thing inside is fragile. Alfred unties the ribbon, rips through the paper and opens the box in the blink of an eye, pulling from it the small, rounded, ornamental music box. His eyes light up in wonder. "Oh!" When he lifts the lid, a soft song plays through the velvet inside. An old lullaby I used to sing to him back when he was under my care, back when we were so close…he hums along with it, as do I, both our eyes shut.

I feel his head rest against my shoulder. Instantly, my eyes snap open. Alfred looks at peace, humming softly, eyes shut, smiling. I raise my hand to play with his golden hair, smiling as well. When the lullaby ends, he shuts the lid and opens his eyes, looking directly at me. "I assume you like your gift?"

Alfred nods, his smile widening. "How could I not?"

And then he hands me my own gift. It is wrapped with care in green paper, with a shiny red bow stuck to the top with some form of adhesive. I open it by taking my time, peeling it away slowly. Alfred, I can tell, is probably impatient by now. When I open the tiny rectangular box at long last, I find a rustic pocket watch, made of gold, carved with the scene of a wintry forest. Upon the inside lid, my name is etched in a flowing script. It works, ticking away. Set in my own time zone. Once more, I am speechless.

"Not what you were expecting?" Alfred is smiling at him.

Reluctantly, I nod. "Not at all. I expected a gift card or…something."

"Well," Alfred laughs, "I saw it at a store I passed by while doing my Christmas shopping and…it just made me think of you. The engraving I did myself."

"Hm," I hum, leaning against him. My fingers stretch over the beautiful gold, the neat carving, flipping open the lid to ghost across my name. It makes me smile, and I believe it will make me smile many years from now, if I have not died by that time.

We sit in silence for a long while, content in our thoughtful gifts. Finally, Alfred stands, pulling me up with him by the shoulders, and I find myself in his arms. I hug him back, forehead against his chest. Most of the day is whittled away in silence, or in the humming of an old lullaby. When night falls I have not once separated from Alfred's side. We walk up the stairs together.

_We_ is a lovely word. I must admit that _we_ happens to be one of my favorites.

We share a bed. Alfred and I hold each other through the night, hold one another and share our warmth.

_Our_ is a lovely word as well, isn't it?

Alfred kisses my temple. In response, I do the same to him. "Good night, Alfred."

"Good night, Arthur…"

This is how I find myself on Christmas day.


End file.
